Dave Duncan: Mother of Lies

Bent into the storm, the Mutineer led Misery into Pantheon Way, which in turn reminded him of the day after the fall, the day his own fate had been sealed by a powerful hand grabbing his arm in this very street. He had struggled and screamed and been well thumped for it. Marched away to the Vigaelians’ camp and informed that he was to be trained to be a Hero of Weru like the ice devils, he had retorted that his father was a councillor and councillors’ sons could not be treated like this. For that insolence he had been beaten. Thereafter he had sulked in angry silence within the great weeping, suffering mass of boys who had been taken-a hundred and nineteen sons of artisans and weavers and shopkeepers. There he had waited for his father to discover where he had gone and come and claim him.

Two days later his father did appear, arriving with an imposing entourage while the young victims were being drilled in calisthenics. Young Marno was duly called forward and recognized. Instead of releasing him, the Vigaelian commander ordered him tied up and flogged until his father had run all the way back to the city gate. Councillor Cavotti had not been a fast runner. And so Marno Cavotti, who had dreamed of being a great patron of the arts, become a Werist probationer, then a cadet, and finally a sworn warrior in the cult.

He had seen his parents just once after that, when he was a new-collared Werist, posted to the garrison in Umsina. They had come to visit him, but his brothers had stayed away, shunning him as a monster. His mother had wept, his father had asked penetrating questions about loyalty.

Cavotti had dropped hints about his plans. His mother had screamed at him not to; his father had smiled proudly and told him to go ahead. For that encouragement-revealed to Stralg by his seers-the bloodlord had later put the councillor to death and fined House Cavotti an incredible weight of gold. Marno doubted that his brothers had forgiven him even yet. If they learned that he was in the city, they would likely betray him to the Fist.

Just for nostalgia’s sake, he led Misery along River Way and let the guanaco see the Cavotti Palace. It was not one of the really big ones, although it was not exactly small either. It probably did not impress the llamoid much, but it did remind Cavotti that life could be anything except fair.

Any city, no matter how grand its public face, must have squalid corners somewhere. The Mutineer’s destination was a small and stinking courtyard behind the abattoir, where rain hissed on an ankle-deep quag of blood and mire. Even in that downpour the stench was very bad, and no one ever lingered there after the morning slaughter. Anybody who now followed him in would not be an innocent passerby.

The partisans kept no regular agents in the city, because they could not be hidden from Stralg’s seers, but Cavotti had stayed in touch with a few old friends over the years, exchanging innocent messages by roundabout means, and yesterday he had sent an urgent appeal for help to a man he judged trustworthy. If his messenger did not appear at this rendezvous, both of them were as good as dead.

After a few suffocating moments, the rough plank door in the corner creaked open. The man who emerged was heavily muffled against the storm and held a cloth over his face to block the smell, but he was still recognizable as Siero of Syiso, whose name Cavotti had used at the gate. He trudged across to the wagon and Misery brightened enough to sneer at an old friend.

“Said yes, my lord. Didn’t hesitate. The brown door at the bottom of the steps behind the Linen Weavers’ Guildhall.”

The Mutineer nodded. “Well done.”

Siero led Misery back out to the street and Cavotti departed by an alley on the far side. So far so good. Another river crossed.

He found the brown door and stepped into a cavernous kitchen, shadowed and cool, tidy but dusty. Not recently used. Stale food odors, bronze tripods on bare hearths, massive chopping blocks, a pump and trough, and rows of clay pots on shelves defined its purpose, but obviously the homeowners were not presently in residence.

For a moment longer he just stood there, enjoying calm after the daylong buffeting. One small oil lamp glowed on a table in the far corner and the man who had chosen this meeting place was standing beside it, staring with understandable doubt at the bearded villain in squalid peasant garb. The Mutineer sank to his knees and touched his forehead on the flags.

“Oh, learned master, may holy Mayn bless the wisdom you impart today, may holy Hrada bless the skills you reveal, and may holy Demern guide me to be an obedient and conscientious pupil, oh most beloved master.” He made obeisance again-the morning ritual.

“He never did before,” the other man muttered dryly, starting forward.

“Times change. As you see, I have returned to complete my education. You still owe me a year.” Cavotti scrambled to his feet and they exchanged formal bows. Most old acquaintances would have embraced after so long, but he could not imagine anyone ever embracing Master Dicerno.

The old man cackled nervously. “I certainly did not expect you to show up in person, my lord. I greatly doubt your sanity in coming, but you are a most welcome sight. All Florengia is in your debt.” Last survivor of an ancient but impoverished house, Dicerno had spent a lifetime teaching sons of the rich all the things Celebrian nobles must know-respect for the gods, the laws of holy Demern, the customs of their city, its art and history, manners and deportment, dancing and music, etiquette and court protocol, agriculture, hunting, and finance, the driving and care of llamoids, and sixty-sixty other things. He had been Cavotti’s preceptor from the time he was removed from women’s care at the age of seven until the morning his arm was grabbed on Pantheon Way.

Dicerno scorned concessions to age. His hair was silver, his bony face crinkled like brown leather, but he was still erect and trim, soft-spoken, unfailingly courteous. It was impossible to imagine him ever marrying or fathering sons of his own, but far more impossible that he should ever be tainted by the slightest hint of scandal in his dealings with his charges-or in any other matter, either. He had probably not spoken an ill-advised word or made a clumsy gesture in his life.

In the present unusual circumstances, he did allow a hint of worry to crease his forehead. “Of course you are aware that the enemy has a garrison in the city, my lord?”

“I saw two at the gate. How many, and who is in charge of them?”

“Usually just a dozen, except when a caravan comes through from Veritano. The current keeper is Flankleader Jorvark, who styles himself governor.” The old man pulled a face. “The sort of adolescent who gives youth a bad name. They seem worse even than they used to be, my lord-ill-trained, ill-bred brutes.”

Cavotti shed his sodden cloak. “They are having serious recruiting problems back home. What news of the councillor?”

The doge had appointed Berlice Spirno-Cavotti to replace her murdered husband. Other cities marveled at the Celebrian custom of admitting women to its council of elders.

“Your honored mother is well, my lord, although she must feel her years, as we all do. She is currently in the city, so far as I know.”

Dicerno returned to his corner and came back carrying a basket, from which he produced a towel. Cavotti accepted it gratefully, having by this time stripped down to his scars, brass collar, and two pelf strings laden with silver and copper twists. He dried his face.

“Will you take a message to her for me?”

“Um… of course, my lord.” The tactful pause said more than the words.

“Has Celebre sunk so far that mothers betray their sons?”

“The Fist’s methods are brutal beyond belief, my lord.” Remember, she was forced to watch your father die. “If any rumor of your visit reaches his ears, she and all your family will be in gravest peril. She cannot lie to a seer.”